


Second Life

by Fitzchivalry1122



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Dean, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Flirts, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Castiel, Romance, Slow Burn, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzchivalry1122/pseuds/Fitzchivalry1122
Summary: Castiel's ex-lover, Michael, had destroyed everything. But after a four year campaign of stalking, Michael is finally in prison and Castiel Novak is free to rebuild his life again. For the first time in a long time, Castiel is not living under a pseudonym. He doesn't have to keep changing his phone number, or put new locks on his house, or worry about his loved ones getting hurt. All he wants to do is get a job and keep his head down - take it one step on a time. Not that Dean Winchester is going to allow that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Castiel had been working at the Roadhouse for nearly two weeks before Ellen fired him.  
  
It wasn't like she hadn't given him a chance; on the contrary, Ellen had been very patient with him. The problem was that Castiel Novak had never bar-tended before; and sure, he pretty much had an eidetic memory when it came to things like working the cash register or measuring out shots of liquor, (for some reason, that sort of thing came naturally to him), but it was the other aspect to bar-tending that crippled him. The _social_ aspect. He had always considered himself an introvert, but now - after the break-up with Michael and the four years of hell that followed - it was becoming apparent that whatever social skills he had previously possessed had atrophied.  
  
As he wiped down the bar at the start of his shift, Castiel reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Michael anymore. He knew from experience that thinking about Michael was a black hole – it was almost impossible to escape the pull. He still found himself being drawn into it, even though a whole year had passed since he had last laid eyes him. Even though Castiel had moved 584 miles away to start a new life.  
  
It took the slam of a whiskey glass hitting the bar to bring him back to reality.  
  
"Are you even listening to me?" Ellen said.  
  
"Of course. I'm sorry."  
  
He watches Ellen as she presses the palm of one hand into her eye socket and rubs. "Cas, I have nothing against you, okay? In fact, I even kind of like you. But I need you to listen to me.  I'm trying to run a business."  
  
Ellen is the perfect example of Castiel's lack of social skills. Castiel just can't seem to get a good read on her. Ellen is one of those women who manages to sound angry pretty much 24/7 and yet, ever since Castiel started working at the Roadhouse she has treated him with nothing but maternal affection.  She's motherly towards him in a way that he never got to experience as a child; yelling at him if she thinks he's not eating properly and, on one occasion, cleaning and bandaging a cut when he sliced open his finger.  
  
However, Ellen never seems to smile. This is what makes her an enigma to Castiel. She drinks scotch and plays poker, and has the kind of vocabulary that could make even the most hardened marine wince. The fact that she is not swearing at him r _ight now_ is a testament to how severely Castiel has fucked up, and he knows this.  
  
Because Castiel cannot lose this job. Castiel _needs_ this job.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, "I can do better."  
  
When he does look up from his cleaning, he regrets it. Ellen looks sad, and although she doesn't tend to smile, Castiel has never actually seen her look sad before. He's not prepared for how bad it makes him feel.  
  
"Honey, I agreed to give you a shot as a favour to Gabe, okay? But it's just not working out."  
  
"I can do better. If you give me a little more time..."  
  
"I don't have time. I need a bartender _now_." Ellen sighs and upends the remnants of a whiskey bottle into her glass. "You're..." She stops talking, struggling for words for a moment. He can tell she's trying to pick them carefully. "You're not quick enough when you serve people - and I get it, okay? You're still finding your way around behind the bar, but that's not good enough on a Friday night, you know? I got customers."  
  
Castiel nods. "I can work faster."  
  
"You spook the customers." And there it is. Castiel knew she was going to say it, but it still stings. "You're quiet, and kinda awkward. I think it's sweet that you're shy or whatever, but it's not going to make you any tips here. You need to be able to engage with people. Flirt a bit. Know what I'm saying?"  
  
"Yeah." Cas says. Because he _does_ know what she's saying, but damned if there's anything he can do about it.    
  
Ellen sighs. She looks at the whiskey in her glass and swirls it around like she's trying to read her future. She downs it in one mouthful. "I've got a new girl starting tomorrow, she's got previous experience. If you want, you can finish out the rest of the week and get a bit more money under your belt." She looks from the empty glass to Castiel, her expression unreadible. "I'll understand if you don't want to."  
  
"No, I want to. Of course I do." Castiel says, but it's not true.  
  
The truth is, he really, really needs the money.  
  
  
\------ 

  
  
The new girl, as it turns out, is called Lisa.  
  
Lisa has black hair and is quick to serve people. Unlike Castiel, she knows when to smile at the customers, and the natural s-shape of her hips as she leans on the bar reminds him of that feminine _"ogee"_ curve so favoured by chinese aesthetes everywhere. And although Castiel has never been attracted to women, he figures those aesthetes must have been onto something because in the space of two hours, Lisa seems to have pulled in more tips than Castiel has managed to make all week.  
  
And as if that wasn't bad enough, this morning Castiel had received a letter from his lawyer enclosing the final bill for his services. The price is extortionate, and exceeds much more than he expected to spend.This, coupled with the fact that Castiel is due to be unemployed at the end of the week occupies most of his thoughts. But what choice does he have? Crowley Litigation Services saved his life. He owes them so much more than an outstanding invoice.  
  
At around 4pm, before the post-work rush, his brother Gabriel stops by the bar and orders a bowl of nachos and some draft beer. He eats at the bar, chatting to Castiel as he watches him try to unclog the sink. This is the "Gabriel" equivilant of trying to cheer him up. Together, Castiel and Gabriel watch Lisa at the other end of the bar, as she engages the bar patrons in conversation. She is beautiful, Castiel thinks dispassionately. He watches as Rufus tips her a $20 bill. He shouldn’t feel bitter, but he does.  
  
"Goddamn, little brother." Gabriel says, "I'm sorry, but I would have fired you too."  
  
Castiel frowns. "Thanks." __  
  
"No, I mean it. Look at her. That woman is a work of art. I mean, if it makes you feel any better I would've fired _Gandhi_ if it meant I got to work with a hot piece of ass like that." As Lisa leans over the bar to show Rufus a picture of something on her cellphone, Gabriel's eyes all but pop out of his skull. In this position, her v-neck top has been pulled into a compromising angle.  
  
_"Thank you, Jesus."_  Gabriel whispers.  
  
Castiel attacks the sink. His nose itches, and he tries to relieve himself by pressing his nose into the back of one marigold glove. "You know," he tells Gabriel, "I'm not sure how good of a bartender Gandhi would've been. I'm fairly certain he didn't drink." With one almighty heave, he puts as much weight as he can on to the plunger in his hands, but it is to no avail. The sink is clogged, it smells bad, and the air conditioner is broken. Castiel can feel himself sweating through his t-shirt.  
  
"I don't know, he always showed a lot of skin. If you show a lot of skin, you tend to get bigger tips." Gabriel reaches over the bar and tugs at Castiel's marigolds, "You could learn a thing or two from him. And from that mesopotamian goddess standing at the other end of the bar. Sex sells, little brother."  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes and tries the plunger again. The water level doesn’t move. "I'm not selling sex, I'm selling beer."  
  
"See? That's why you don't make any tips."  
  
He heaves his weight onto the plunger again, and feels a sweaty strand of black hair flop onto his forehead. In this heat, even his hairgel is melting.  
  
"I don't make tips because I can’t talk to people. And I suck at my job."  
  
If Gabriel really wanted to cheer him up, he could have said, _'You don't suck at your job!" ,_ but he's Gabriel, so instead he says, “Yeah, you do! That's why you need to show some skin."  
  
Castiel sighs. He tells himself that Gabriel is trying to help, and pushes all thoughts of attacking his brother with a plunger to the back of his mind.  
  
By the time Gabriel is on his fourth beer, all pretence of sobriety is out the window. He leans over the bar and tries to whisper to Castiel, but it comes out as more of a stage-whisper, and Castiel is convinced everyone within five feet can hear them.  
  
“Hey, hey kiddo. Come here.” Castiel sighs and abandons the sink, but still refuses to peel off the yellow gloves. He leans towards his brother.  
  
“What?”  
  
Gabe inclines his head towards Rufus. “How about Rufus Turner? He's a Detective. That's kind of hot, right?” He whispers, loudly.  
  
Nothing against Rufus, but he _is_ fast approaching retirement age. It seems like ever since Castiel moved in with his brother, Gabriel has been trying to set him up with someone. Moving to Sioux Falls was supposed to be a new start for him. Castiel had a new name, a new life. The last thing he wanted was any complications. Castiel feels his shoulders drop. “ _Gabe...”_  
  
“Humour me. Is Rufus bangable - yes, no or maybe?”  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes. He's played this game with Gabriel before, but it seems like his brother is not going to give up. In Gabe's eyes, Castiel's self-imposed celibacy is just another way of letting Michael ruin his life. But Castiel finds it hard to trust people; hell, most of the time he's so goddamn anxious around new people that it's impossible to even pop half a boner. This is what Michael has made of him. This is what happens after four years of being stalked. Castiel is so not in the mood for dating, and even if he was, it wasn't going to be with anyone that has a goddamn mustache. Sorry Rufus.  
  
But, because Castiel is feeling generous,  or perhaps because Gabe is being so goddamn loud that he can't be sure that Rufus can’t hear them, Castiel doesn't say anything about the mustache. Instead he says, “I told you I'm not looking for a relationship right now.”    
  
But Gabriel just smiles, “Fuck man, I'm just trying to get you laid. I'm being a good brother.”  
  
“I’m going back to my plunger now.”  
  
“That’s right.” Gabriel isn’t even pretending to whisper now. “You take out your sexual frustrations on that sink!”  
  
Castiel does, and manages to splash himself with stale water in the process. He’s wearing bright yellow gloves, and his hair is plastering to his forehead, and he is becoming more and more conscious of the fact that he can smell his own deodorant. Castiel has never felt so unsexy.  
  
“Okay, next one!” Gabriel is back to stage whispering. “Dean Winchester. I mean, he's basically the straightest person I know, but we're running out of options here."  
  
Castiel is furiously plunging the sink. He’s picturing his brother’s face while he does it.  
  
“I don’t know who that is.”  
  
“He’s Ellen’s son. Step-son, or whatever. He’s talking to Lisa.” Despite himself, Castiel finds himself turning to look, and he's not prepared for what he sees when he does.  
  
Dean Winchester is a mechanic, that much is obvious. Castiel can tell, because he’s wearing dark overalls that he recognises from Singers’ Auto a couple of miles down the street. The overalls have been stripped to his hips in favour of a grey t-shirt that has now been obliterated by engine oil and sweat. His face is pink from working in the sun all morning. Dean Winchester smiles at Lisa, and when he smiles, he smiles with his whole face. Castiel is very aware that he must be staring.  
  
"Well?" Gabriel prompts. Castiel opens his mouth, and when he realises he has nothing to say he closes it again.  
  
Of course, this guy is way out of his league. A guy like this might as well have the word "STRAIGHT" tattooed across his forehead, and it's pretty apparent by the way that Lisa's face lights up that he's never had to work to get a woman's attention. Still, even knowing that he doesn't have a chance in hell of scoring with him - even knowing that it's more than likely that he's never going to even see this guy again, given that his employment is being terminated in exactly four days time - Castiel allows himself to revel in the slight frisson of sexual attraction, and the way his blood is suddenly running very hot beneath his skin. It's been so long since Castiel has had a crush - so long since he's actually felt _any_ kind of sexual attraction to someone - that just looking at Dean Winchester's face is a revelation to him. He can't kiss Dean Winchester, of course. He can barely drum up the courage to say two words to the man. But Castiel decides to let himself enjoy this - he allows himself this one moment.  
  


Dean Winchester is a goddamn wet dream. 

  
"Shut up." His hisses to his brother, which earns him a whoop that causes the entire bar to turn and look at them. Despite himself, Castiel smiles and shakes his head. He peels off the marigold gloves and rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair, having finally decided to give up on the sink.  
  
Gabriel opens his mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it. He swallows a mouthful of beer, and eventually says, "It's about time you started shopping around again."

"I told you.” Castiel says, “I'm not 'shopping around'. I'm just..."

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. 'Trying to get your life back on track', et ecetera. Change the record, will you?”

 

*****

 

Time passes slowly once Gabriel leaves the bar. Despite his new-found libido, Castiel decides to put a lot of his energy into ignoring Dean Winchester. After all, Mr Engine Oil over there has all the hallmarks of being a very bad idea. Sure, he might have a perfect, white smile and biceps like a stevedore, but what Castiel really needs now is _money._ What he does not need is sentimental attachment, least of all sentimental attachment to a flaming _heterosexual._

As business begins to pick up, and as the after-work crowd starts to mill in, Castiel finds that he is focusing so hard on ignoring Dean Winchester that all his previous anxieties disapate slightly. He's so distracted that he forgets to be socially awkward; instead, he finds himself popping open bottles of beer and lifting kegs with an alacrity that surprises even himself.  At some point, even the sink seems to drain. And Castiel shakes his head to himself and smiles wryly, because doesn't it just figure that it would be the day _after_ he got fired that he would learn how to be a good bartender?

And if he does spare the Winchester boy a glance or two, well… he _is_ working, after all. Castiel reasons that it would be remiss of him to ignore a potential customer. One time, he looks up, and he thinks he catches Dean's eyes darting away, but he couldn't swear to it. And who is he kidding, anyway? Lisa has already monopolised Dean Winchester's attention. She keeps him well-stocked in craft beer and pretzels, and at one point when Castiel looks over, she appears to be touching his arm, so he goes right back to ignoring them.

Something else Castiel puts a lot of energy into is not hating Lisa.

At around 8pm, as the crowd really starts to get busy, that's when it's time for Castiel to clock off. He is, after all, still a rookie. Since starting this job he has been relegated to working the less-busy hours, because only _true_ professionals get to work the decent, money-making shifts.

Jo Harvelle, for example.

Jo is Ellen’s daughter and works the Roadhouse like she was born to it. She slips behind the bar and gives Castiel an affectionate hug before she ties back her hair and sets to work. And maybe Castiel is imagining it - it could all be in his head, after all - but he thinks he detects a degree of sympathy in her face, which means Jo has been talking to her mother. Castiel doesn’t think he’ll miss working at the Roadhouse, but he’ll certainly miss working with Jo.

And then it's that time of day, where Castiel has to tally up his cash register before he goes home. This part he knows he's good at, seeing as he always had a better head for figures than he did for social niceties. He counts the money and jots down numbers on a slip of paper, but it doesn’t escape his attention that Lisa isn’t doing the same. She is still pouring drinks. Still talking to Dean.

“Lisa not leaving?” He asks Jo.

Jo doesn’t meet his eyes. “Uh, she’s working a double shift. Mom asked her to stay behind, give me a hand with the evening crowd.”

Castiel keeps a small smile plastered to his face, although it feels rictus. He would’ve _killed_ to work a double-shift right now. Double-shifts are where the real money is. He turns his attention back to the money in his hand, and finds he has to start counting the twenties all over again. Jo places a hand on his arm.

"For what it's worth," she says, "Lisa has a kid. I think that's a big part of why Mom hired her. She's a single mom."

And now Castiel feels like ten different kinds of asshole, because he's been quietly hating Lisa all night, and he doesn't want to hear about how she's just a regular mom, trying to do her best. Logically he knows none of this is Lisa's fault. It's not her fault that Castiel is balls deep in debt, and it's certainly not her fault that he can't tend a bar for shit.  And he feels like saying to Jo, 'It's okay, I know I suck at bar-tending. You don't have to be nice to me', but he doesn't, because the only thing worse than being an asshole is being a _self-depreciating_ asshole. He accepts her kind words with good grace, and later when she offers him some red licorice, he accepts one and chews on it thoughtfully as he closes out his till.

And then it's time to go. Castiel turns to Jo to say his goodbyes, pulling the candy out of his mouth as he does so - and the strangest thing happens. Dean is looking at him. He almost looks flustered, but in the dim light of the bar, it’s difficult to tell. How long had he been watching him? For  a moment, Castiel forgets how to breathe. He is startled when Jo smacks him on the rear.

Off his facial expression, she laughs. "Are you going home tonight Cas, or are you going to stay here all night having eye-sex with Dean?"

Castiel doesn't know how to respond to that, but it doesn't matter anyway, because Dean is the one that speaks up. The first words Castiel hears him say are, “We weren't _eye-sexing._ ", and he says it with such vehemence that it's hard not to be insulted.

“Hey,” Jo says, “It’s okay. Cas is pretty hot. But if you want to ogle the bar staff you have to buy a drink.”

“Okay, then can I get a nice frosty glass of _you shutting your goddamn mouth_?”

“We’re out of that. Can I interest you in a bottle of _keep it in your pants, Dean?”_

“ _We were not eye-sexing, Jo."_  
  
“If you say so, moron."

That is enough. It’s the final indignity. Because Castiel can deal with clogged sinks, and losing his job, and even the fact that he’s been able to smell himself for almost eight hours straight; but goddamnit, when you find the one person in months who is able to breathe life into your tired and battered libido, and that person denies checking you out, (like, _fervently_ denies checking you out. Like, Castiel must look disgusting right now, because the idea of Dean finding him attractive is apparently fucking ludicrus); well, that's _too much._ Castiel slams his till shut with such force that the bottles of liquor along the bar shake. Both Dean and Jo are startled, which is good, because Castiel is filled with an eerie calm.

Enough."  Cas points at Jo, "Jo, I have no idea what "eye-sexing" is but it sounds weird and iniquitous. I'm leaving."

To his horror, Dean laughs. "You always talk like that, man?"

“Talk like what?”

Jo laughs, “Poor Dean. Is he using too many big words for you?”

“No, I'm talking about the gravelly phone-sex voice. This guys sounds like Tom Waits gargling a mouth full of lighter fluid.”

He doesn't have a response to that, so he just stares at Dean. He could so easily reach across the bar and grab him. He doesn't know what he would do if he grabbed him. He drags his fingers through his damp hair and is very aware that Dean is watching his movements.

“Now that's an idea!” Jo calls, “A phone sex line! Thats sure-fire way to make money. I bet you'd rake it in, Cas.”

“I don't know how much money I'd make off phone sex . 'Tom Waits gargling lighter fluid' sounds like a pretty niche sexual preference.”

Dean laughs so hard, he spills his beer. Castiel isn't entirely sure if he's laughing _at_ him, or if he just finds what he's said funny, but his low self-esteem inclines him to think the worst. The two things he has learnt about Dean Winchester in the past two minutes are: 1, he does not find Castiel attractive and 2, apparently he thinks Castiel's voice is weird. He breathes deep. Damn Dean Winchester and his perfect fucking face.

It shouldn't hurt so much, but it does.

He has no jacket to grab, and no bag of any kind, so he just makes his excuses and walks out of the bar. When Jo calls after him, he does a fairly good job of pretending he can't hear her. It's a short walk to the apartment he shares with his brother and when he gets home, Gabriel isn’t there, which is just as well really.

He loves his brother, but he's had enough of talking to people for one day.

+++++

When Castiel sleeps, he dreams about Michael.

He always dreams about Michael.

*****  
  


**Chapter Two**

He wakes in the morning to find a text message from Jo:

_Jo, 02.04am : “March 4th, we're having a batchelor party at the roadhouse 4 dean's brother. u wanna come? J. x”_

Glossing over the fact that he had never actually met Dean's brother, Castiel hated parties. He hated making small talk and he hated how much he had to drink to compensate for his shyness. He especially hated batchelor parties, because the one thing that could perfectly cement his social anxiety was the idea of a naked female gyrating in his face.  Not that he was opposed to the idea of strippers in general. His thoughts went to Dean, and to Dean's oil stained mechanics overalls. He didn't think  Dean would appreciate Castiel crashing his brother's batchelor party without an invite.  

_Me, 06.32am: "Probably not. I don't think your friend likes me very much."_

Lying back in bed, Castiel stares at the ceiling. He’s supposed to be taking the morning shift today, which is always dead at the bar except for the occasional cop or paramedic coming off a nightshift. It takes a lot for him to drag himself out of bed and make a cup of coffee, which he takes into the shower with him, because fuck it. He's single. He can do what he wants. When he's out of the shower, he sees that someone, _(Gabriel),_ has written the words "C.N + D.W 4 EVA" in the steam on the bathroom mirror. Is fratricide always a crime, Castiel wonders? Only if they find his body.

As he walks into his bedroom, towel drying his hair, Castiel sees he has a new message.

_Jo, 07.04am: "Dean thinks ur cool. He asked me to invite u. U should go! J.x"_

He stares at his phone. If there is one thing Castiel Novak has never been accused of, it's "being cool". After a while, he texts back _"I'll think about it." ,_ but what he really means is 'no'.

Castiel walks to work. It’s nearly seven thirty, and already too warm. He’s dreading spending another shift working in a bar with no air conditioning. He walks through the door, making a beeline for the bar, sparing just enough of his attention to greet Ash and ask him how his shift had gone, before turning to face his first customer.

Dean Winchester.

Of course, it would make sense that the first – and only – customer in the entire bar would be the man he had spent half the morning frantically masturbating over.

"Good morning, sunshine."

His voice is a rich baritone, completely at odds with his wide eyes and youthish face. Castiel's mouth feels dry. This crush, which yesterday had been such a source of wonder to him, suddenly seems debilitating; which may have something to do with Jo's misplaced teasing, or it may be some kind of hangover from years of being stalked by Michael. Castiel isn't sure. Either way, it suddenly doesn't seem so bad that he only has three days of work left at the Roadhouse if it means never having to see Dean Winchester's irritatingly handsome face again.

"What can I get you?"  
  
Dean looks thoughtful. He grabs a laminated menu off the bar, studying the contents.

"You guys still do breakfast here, right?"

Castiel looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. At this close distance, he notices for the first time that Dean's eyes are green. He has freckles. "It's your Mom's place. You don't know if we do breakfast?"

" _Foster-mom."_ Dean throws the menu back on the bar, and pulls up a stool. With horror, Castiel realises that Dean is planning to sit at the bar. Not only that, but he's chosen Gabe's usual seat – the seat that is situated in the best possible spot for when you want to harass the bar staff. Dean says, "I know they used to do breakfast here, but I also know Ellen fired the short-order cook, so whatever. Are you selling breakfast or not?"

The official line, Ellen told Castiel, was “not” _._ Breakfast is supposed to be off the menu, not that anyone used to order it anyway. Money is tight at the Roadhouse, and Ellen was adament that they couldn't afford to hire another cook so for the foreseeable future any food more complicated than nachos and pretzels were off limits.

Instead, Castiel says, "I don't know. I think we have eggs out back, if you want me to scramble them or something. No bread though."

Dean appears to think about it. Castiel uses the opportunity to study him. Gone are yesterday's overalls and oil stains; today Dean is wearing jeans, and a flannel shirt that only serves to emphasise   his eyes. In contrast to yesterday, he is freshly showered and clean-shaven. Cas' eyes are drawn to the thick line of the trapezius muscle running up the back of his neck; it looks hard, and pale and kissable. Castiel has gone a long time without finding another human being kissable, and now he's met someone he can't seem to switch it off. His libido is a broken-floodgate.

"Screw it," Dean says, "just get me a scotch. On the rocks."

"That's a hell of a breakfast."

"Well, I'm a hell of a guy." This is said with a wink that has Castiel rolling his eyes as he fetches a clean glass. So, Dean is the kind of guy that flirts with everyone. _Great._

He is conscious of Dean watching him. Dean watches him as he pours his scotch, and he watches him as he places the liquor back behind the bar. Dean is almost, but not quite, smiling. This kind of scrutiny is unnerving. Those wide, green eyes miss nothing; and in this empty bar there is nothing else, no other buffer, to distract his attention.

"You don't talk much, do you Cas?"

Castiel passes him his drink.”Talk? Why? What do you want me to say?"  
  
"Humour me, man. Your name is Cas, right? That short for something?"

"'Castiel'."

" _Jesus."_

"No." Cas speaks with exaggerated slowness, _"'Cas-ti-el."_

"You're a sarcastic motherfucker, aren't you?"

Dean examines the contents of his drink before tasting it. He drinks it slowly. Perversely, Cas seems to find this erotic. He watches his lips touch the glass. Thinks about his lips touching other things.

Instead of responding, Castiel sets about his morning tasks - wiping down the bar, checking the ice stock. _Not_ looking at Dean Winchester's mouth.

"You married, Cas? Kids?"

The question takes him by surprise. Because okay, sure, he doesn't advertise the fact that he's gay, but that's only because he sort of assumes that everyone already knows. After all, his brother Gabriel lived in Sioux Falls for nearly fourteen years before he invited Castiel to come and stay with him; and it's a small town, everybody knows everybody. But even if that wasn't the case, Gabriel isn't known for his subtlety. When he first introduced Castiel to Jo, his exact words were, "Have you met my little brother? His name is Cas. He's _super homo_."

 _"No."_  Castiel says, "No, I do not have a wife."

Dean tastes his scotch again. Cas watches him swallow, fascinated.

"Ah, right. So just a girlfriend then? Got you."

Should he tell him? Would it even make a difference? "No. No girlfriend."

"Okay." Dean takes an interest in the contents of his glass. "Cool."

But even as Dean is still talking, Ash exits the kitchen. Castiel hasn't known Ash that long - they'd only met a couple of times, really; but despite this, Castiel likes him. He thinks he's a nice guy - despite his mullet and questionable hygiene. As he moves, Ash has a jacket slung over one arm and what looks like a half-empty bottle of red wine hidden underneath it.

"Alright, see you amigos!" he makes his way to the door, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he goes, "Dean, man, it's been too long. You should come in more often."  
  
Dean smiles, but it's a small smile. Private. "I might just do that."

But as Ash goes to leave, Castiel finds himself flagging him down. "Wait, Ash, before you go..." Ash sighs; the irritation rides high on his already  pink cheeks. "Do we have any eggs in the kitchen? Any breakfast foods at all?"

"Yeah, we got eggs. And butter. And about a fuck-ton of sausages in the freezer. You making breakfast, man?"

"I might. Thank you, Ash." He watches him walk away. As Castiel rubs his chin, realising that he really should have taken the time to shave that morning. "If you're still hungry, I could make sausage gravy and eggs. It's sort of my signature dish. It'd be better if we had biscuits though."

Dean's eyes light up. "Oh, hell yes. I will pay you _cash money."_

"Don't worry about it," Castiel says, "it's not technically on the menu, so I don't know how much I'd have to charge you anyway. Besides, I think I sort of owe you. I was kind of a grouch last night. All I'd ask is that you watch the bar while I go cook it."  
  
"You have a goddamn deal." Dean smiles, and by the way Castiel's heart is thundering he can already tell that this is a bad idea.

He takes a minute to top up Dean's scotch before disappearing into the kitchen. In the short time he's worked there, Castiel has been of the opinion that this kitchen is wasted on the Roadhouse. It's spacious, but there's a lot of red-brick tiles that gives it a kind of homely feel. It has three ovens and two stove tops, and yet no one ever seems to order food here. The kitchen that Castiel has to share with Gabriel can barely fit two people in it. It seems a shame.

Coffee comes first. He sets the pot to boil and gets two mugs ready, because if he is going to be cooking breakfast than he figures at the very least he deserves some coffee. He beats the eggs and sets about frying the sausages, trying to mix the fat from the sausages in with the butter. The smell is already making his mouth water. Castiel tries to remember the last time he cooked breakfast for anyone that wasn't himself or his brother. He thinks, was it Inias?

His heart feels heavy at the thought of Inias.

"That smells _good."_

Castiel jumps, nearly smacking Dean in the face with a kitchen utensil.  "You're supposed to be watching the bar."

Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. When he's laughing, he looks different. Younger.

He says, “Well, if I knew you were going to beat me with a spatula, I might have stayed out the kitchen.”

“What are you doing back here?”

"You were taking too long."  
  
"It's been _five minutes."_

Dean ignores this statement. "Is it ready yet?"

And that really is too much. Castiel is trying to be nice, but it's like Dean Winchester is on a mission to ruin his fucking life.

"No. You'll know when it is ready because it'll be sitting on a _fucking plate."_

For some reason, this makes Dean laugh harder. "You do this 'eyebrow' thing when you're mad. I'll pour the coffee.”

The breakfast only takes another few minutes to cook. Castiel even finds some bacon in the freezer that he fries up, and all the while Dean is hovering behind him – insisting on tasting the eggs, adding salt to the sausage, getting in Castiel's personal space. They plate up, and it becomes pretty obvious that Castiel has made too much food – but they carry their bounty out to the bar area regardless, so that Cas can carry on working between bites.

It is, sadly, one of the nicest mornings Castiel has had in a long time. Dean, true to Cas' expectations, knows how to appreciate food. He shovels the eggs into his mouth with abandon, and a couple of times Castiel catches him closing his eyes as he eats. He groans, he hums, really makes a production out of enjoying his breakfast, and Castiel loves it. The way Dean Winchester eats food is downright pornographic.

Castiel finds himself unable to finish his plate. He is too distracted by Dean, and the noises he makes. By the time Dean is finishing, Castiel is nursing a pretty impressive semi, and has to sit on a stool behind the bar with his legs crossed. It is not the most comfortable position.

“Cas, that was incredible.” Dean swipes a finger along the plate and pops it into his mouth, and Castiel wants to die. “If I knew you could cook like that...”

It's at this moment that Ellen chooses to walk through the front door of the bar, followed closely behind by Rufus.

“What the hell is this?” Ellen says. Castiel's heart drops. He doesn't think Ellen would really be mad that he raided the freezer, but he knew she'd still probably chew him out a little over it. He's not particularly keen to get yelled at in front of Dean. On the plus side, one look at Ellen's annoyed facial expression, and Castiel's erection has withered at an impressive speed.

But instead, Ellen turns her attention to Dean. “Two days in a row? You're visiting the bar for the second fucking day in a row? Have you sustained a brain injury or something?”

Dean smiles up at her. “What? A guy can't visit the best bar in town?”

“'A guy' can, Dean. But you are not 'a guy'.” she checks her watch. “I can' remember the last time you called in to see me before noon. What's going on?”

“I just thought I'd call in before going to work. Maybe get some breakfast. I mean, apparently you guys don't ' make breakfast anymore, but luckily for me, Cas here hooked me up.” Dean reaches over the bar and slaps Castiel on the arm.

It doesn't escape Cas' attention that Ellen seems to be looking between Castiel and Dean. She has that same look on her face that she gets when she's cashing up at the end of a shift: like she's trying to reconcile the numbers in her mind. Castiel and Dean. Dean and Castiel. She's calculating something. This is bad – this is really, really bad, because Castiel is sure that his ill-founded crush must be written all over his face.

Rufus, meanwhile, seems to be more interested in Castiel's half-eaten plate. “That looks good. You got any spare?”

And everyone's looking at Castiel now. Dean says, “We might, after I get a _second_ plate."

"A second plate?"

"Word of advice, Cas." Dean says as he's disappearing into the kitchen, "you don't want to keep feeding me, man. I'm like a stray. If you feed me once, you'll never get rid of me."  

And then Dean disappears into the kitchen, with Rufus trailing behind him. As they walk, Castiel can hear them bickering. Cas listens to them as they argue, and all the while, Ellen is watching him with that look in her eye. That calculating look.

Castiel has only two days left at the Roadhouse.

*****

The next morning, when Castiel turns up to work, he's brought enough ingredients for blueberry pancakes. He wasn't sure if Dean was planning on turning up at the bar again, but when he gets there Dean is already in Gabe's seat, and his face lights up at the bags of groceries Castiel is carrying.

The day after that - Cas' last day at the Roadhouse - he decides he wants to go out with a bang, and brings enough bacon to feed a small army. Dean is there, and with him he's brought them both coffee; the kind of fancy coffee in polystyrene cups that comes with an italian name. Dean is adamant that it is the best coffee that South Dakota has to offer, and seems affronted when Castiel hasn't heard of the place he bought it.

"Well, I'm new to Sioux Falls. It's not like Lonely Planet offers a travel guide to this two-bit town."

"It's on East Avenue. I'll show you one day. No need to thank me."

It's business as usual in the kitchen. Castiel is trying to cook and Dean is getting in his personal space, trying to taste everything. They argue, of course, but there's no malice behind it. Castiel tries to order him out of the kitchen, and Dean retaliates by snaking an arm around Cas to dip his fingers in scrambled eggs. At this close proximity, Castiel can feel his breath as it ghosts against the back of his neck. Dean Winchester smells clean, with a faint scent of some kind of aftershave. Something with sandalwood, he thinks. For one delirious moment, Castiel breathes him in; feels dizzy with it.

Dean, of course, does not notice.

They eat breakfast at the bar and Dean talks about anything and everything - his job at the garage, the best cheeseburger he ever had, who Marc Bolan was and the reason why "Futuristic Dragon" was the most underrated T-Rex album of all time. Castiel tells him stories about his inept bar-tending, his favourite books and what life was like growing up in Pontiac.

He does _not_ talk about Michael.

They know to expect Rufus at some point, because Rufus has crashed both their breakfast parties this week and now he seems to have this idea that free breakfast is a thing now. What they don't expect is for Rufus to turn up with a friend. Castiel's heart sinks. 

Dean, on the other hand, is delighted. 

"Bobby!" With a mouthful of eggs, he sticks an arm out and throws it around the red-faced man who just walked through the door. The man pats Dean on the back in a gesture that roughly approximates some kind of affection.

"Get off me, ya idjit."

Rufus, of course, is more interested in the plates. "No pancakes today?"

Castiel shrugs. "Sorry Rufus. Bacon and eggs only. Is that good enough for you?"

Rufus sniffs. "It'll do."

"I'll dish up a couple of plates." As Castiel moves towards the kitchen, Dean grabs his arm, and Cas looks down at his wrist where Dean's fingers are holding him in place. Dean looks almost as surprised to see his hand there as Castiel is.

"Uh Cas, wait a minute. I want you to meet someone. This is Bobby." He drops Castiel's arm, "Bobby's my boss at the garage, and he's been like a father to me. Taught me everything I know about working on cars."

Castiel goes to offer a handshake, but Bobby has already rounded on Dean, "Oh, did I? I didn't happen to teach you anything about turning up to work on time as well, did I? Because you've been late to work every day this week. Is this where you've been hiding?"

Dean doesn't even have the decency to look shame-faced. "You'll understand Bobby, once you try this guy's eggs."

"Boy, you could do with focusin' a little less on this guy's eggs and a little more on fixing that damn Ford Riviera."

"Ford Rivieras aren't worth fixing."

"You shut your damn mouth."

Castiel takes an experimental step backwards, And another one. When he realises Bobby and Dean are engrossed in their argument, he deems it safe to retreat to the kitchen and sort out Rufus and Bobby something to eat. Once he's in alone in the kitchen, he takes a shaky breath.

His last day. It's his last day.  

Two and a half weeks he has worked at the Roadhouse. It was stupid, he hadn't even finished his shift, but he already felt like he was missing the place. Well, no, maybe not the Roadhouse - although he did enjoy having a decent kitchen to play with. But these past three days, cooking breakfast with Dean; listening to his stupid jokes and actually having somebody to cook for. He had missed that kind of comradeship. It wasn't a romantic thing, (okay, yes, Dean was hot. The man was basically pheromones on legs), but that wasn't what he was going to miss.

What he missed was, for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like Michael had ruined his life.

Castiel could walk to work without worrying that Michael was following him. He had a job; a job under his _real name,_ he didn't have to keep moving around or changing his name or pretending to be somebody else to try and hide from him. And there was Dean too - Dean who made him laugh, and told him stories about his childhood, and Castiel didn't ever have to worry about Dean getting too close, or about Michael warning Dean off him, or any of that other shit that happened to just about everybody else Castiel had been close to. Dean had made him laugh; had made him remember that he _could laugh_. They were almost friends, he thought. They could've gone for beers, watched baseball - whatever it is that friends do.

He plated up two generous portions for Bobby and Rufus. Whatever happened - wherever Castiel ended up going next - he knew he wouldn't forget what Dean had done for him. The guy didn't even realise what a fucking gift he was. Maybe, Castiel thought, he could still hang out at the Roadhouse occasionally. Although from what Ellen was saying, Dean didn't tend to visit there that often, and even if he did Castiel didn't know if he'd be able to stomach watching Dean and Lisa all over each other again.

No, it would probably be better if he just left well enough alone.

As he walked out towards the bar, Bobby and Dean were still arguing. Castiel could see what Dean meant when he said Bobby was like a father to him, because he'd never seen any two people bicker like that who weren't related. He looked at Rufus and shared an amused smile.

"...and another thing," Bobby was saying, "since when did you start wearing cologne to work? You smell like damn hooker."  
  
Dean leaned back on his seat, running both hands through his hair, his dorsal muscles pulling his plaid shirt tight against his back.

"You bought me this cologne, Bobby."

"Yeah, for dates ya idjit. I don't want to smell that shit around the garage."  

Castiel placed the plates down on the bar; one in front of Rufus and one in front of Bobby. When Bobby stopped attacking Dean in favour of attacking the bacon, Dean looked to Castiel and let out an exaggerated sigh. Castiel couldn't help but laugh.

"This ain't bad." Bobby said, around a mouthful of food.

"Told you." Rufus said.

"Couldn't be worst than Benny's. At least I'm not picking hairs out my eggs." He points an accusing fork at Castiel, "You better be sticking around, boy."  
  
"Well, actually... today is my last day."

" _Last day?"_   Castiel had tried not to look at Dean when he said it, and when he turned to him now he saw his expression was fixed, his mouth a thin line. "And you were going to mention this, when?"

"Well, now, I guess?"

"Bullshit. You weren't going to mention it at all."  
  
"I think Ash is covering my shift. Ellen can't afford to keep too many people on - she needs to make cuts, I guess."

Dean looks at him, and Castiel is reminded of all those police statements he had to give to the Illinois Police Department before Michael was arrested, The way you would finish a sentence, and the detective would just stare at you, as if he was waiting for you to add something onto the end of it. Like he was waiting for you to say more than you mean to, to trip yourself up. The way each statement felt like an interrogation. Dean would have made a good cop, Castiel thinks.

Bobby says, "That's rough. You ain't worked here that long, have you?"

Castiel shrugs, "Couple of weeks, I guess? My brother got me the job." He busies himself by topping up Dean's coffee, and then pouring one for himself. "It just didn't work out, I guess. It happens. I'll find more work."

He says that more to himself, than anyone else. Rufus reaches over the bar and slaps him on the arm; it's the kindest response that he's ever ellicited out of the old man. "That's too bad. We'll miss your food man."

Bobby grunts, which Castiel thinks might be a similar sentiment. "Thanks guys. I'll probably still see you around though."

He finishes his shift with little ceremony; Dean is quiet for the rest of the time he's there, right up until Bobby drags him out the door, telling him that he's "not going to be late for work again, not on his watch". Castiel tries to ignore the thin line of Dean's mouth, the narrowed eyes; the way Castiel says "goodbye", and gets only a half-hearted, "See you around" in return leaves him with the impression that there is something being left unsaid. He knew that by the end of this shift that this precarious friendship that they'd built would've have come to an end, but he didn't expect to have broken it completely.

The thought makes him sad.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's ex-lover, Michael, had destroyed everything. But after a four year campaign of stalking, Michael is finally in prison and Castiel Novak is free to rebuild his life again.
> 
> For the first time in a long time, Castiel is not living under a pseudonym. He doesn't have to keep changing his phone number, or put new locks on his house, or worry about his loved ones getting hurt. All he wants to do is get a job and keep his head down - take it one step on a time.
> 
> Not that Dean Winchester is going to allow that.

** Chapter Three **

 

 

A week passes and Castiel is still unemployed. Crowley Litigation Services have already phoned him once to enquire when they can expect the next payment. It's been nearly two days since he last slept.

  
He only realises that it's the weekend when Gabriel tries to convince him to come out drinking. In fact, Gabriel is so insistent that Castiel starts to wonder if he's up to something. Such tenacity is not unheard of for Gabe, but there is a mischievous glint in his eye that makes Castiel uneasy. Apropos of nothing, he remembers that Gabriel's high school nickname used to be “The Trickster”.

  
Unfortunately for Gabriel, Castiel's plans for the night are already fixed. He's wearing sweatpants and there's four seasons of 'Dr Sexy M.D.' on Netflix which he has been meaning to watch for months. And even if Gabriel does pull a face when he tells him that – (his _“that's chick television, are you seriously blowing me off for chick television?”_ face) – Castiel is quick to point out that there's a thunder storm blowing in from the north, and right now it’s raining hard enough in Sioux Falls to beat a violent snare rush against the windows.  Gabriel doesn't give up easily though– after all, he’s very committed to the idea of getting his hermetic brother laid - but eventually he takes the hint and leaves. Castiel can finally relax.

  
He loves his brother, but living with him is hard sometimes.

  
There's nothing quite like curling up on the couch when it's raining outside. As it turns out, Dr Sexy is quite compelling. Someone gets diagnosed with 'acute strongyloidiasis' – a condition that Castiel had never even heard of, and he spent two years in medical school. He has the sudden urge to google it, but his laptop is on his bed, and there's no way in hell he's moving. It isn't until Dr Sexy himself steps in and saves the day by performing a bone marrow transplant, using _his own bone marrow_ , that Castiel realises he's hooked. Okay, so maybe in real life you can't wear cowboy boots in an operating theatre, but you have to suspend a certain amount of disbelief when you watch television.

  
He orders a pizza that arrives twenty minutes late and helps himself to some beer from the fridge. By the end of episode three he has a nice little buzz going, and the more he drinks the more engrossed he gets. Dr Sexy has the sort of sweet, brown eyes that he used to get dopey over, before Michael ruined everything. But the more Castiel watches, the more he finds himself thinking about green eyes instead. He thinks about small freckles and pink cheeks. When he gets a little hard, he finds he can easily ignore it – especially when Dr Piccolo's ex-husband is diagnosed with haemochromotosis. Now _that's_ a plot-twist. Suddenly there's no room in his mind for anything else.

  
It's a testament to how engrossed he is that he doesn't realise that Gabriel has come home early. He doesn't register the keys in the door, until he realises that whoever is using them seems to be having trouble, and then he's on high-alert. He feels sick – actually, physically sick – and his sickness is only compounded by the knowledge that his fear is irrational, because he knew it wasn't Michael. It couldn't be Michael. Michael was in prison. And yet, he finds himself clutching his beer bottle like it's a potential weapon. 

  
His brother all but falls through the front door.  Gabriel rights himself immediately, but he is a giggling mess as he stumbles towards his bedroom. When Castiel exhales, he does so slowly. The sound of fumbling keys should not be so fucking terrifying. But as unprepared as he was to see his brother's amateur slapstick routine,  he is even less prepared to see the man standing behind him in the doorway. The man who is, even now, holding his Gabriel’s coat and glaring at the retreating form of his brother as he careens into the bedroom.

   
Dean Winchester looks tired.  

  
It takes a moment for Dean to notice Castiel, and then apparently another moment for him to register what he’s seeing. His reaction is delayed, opening and closing his mouth. Castiel is filled with this ridiculous notion that he – that _Castiel_ – was not supposed to be here, and that’s why Dean is so perplexed. That Dean has caught him in the wrong place, at the wrong time, which is absurd because damn it, he lives here. Dean was the one who was out of place.

  
"Cas?” he says, finally.

  
“Hello Dean.”

  
“Why are... wait, you live here?" Dean looks around for the first time. He takes in the beige walls and the family pictures; the knock-off Mucha painting that Castiel has been lugging around from apartment to apartment since he first moved out to college.

  
"I live with Gabe, yes. He's my brother."

  
Castiel is suddenly very aware that his hair is sticking up in every direction; he's wearing his most slovenly sweatpants, and the opening music to 'Dr Sexy, M.D.' is beginning to swell in the background. It is not the ideal situation for your crush to find you in, especially on a Saturday night. Dean, in contrast, looks irritatingly handsome - his jeans, heavy with rain, are dragging low on his hips, which displays a tantalising amount of skin; his rectus abdomis drawing a sharp 'V' where his stomach muscles meet his hips. Castiel is caught by the sudden urge to reach out for it - to trace it with his fingers. He has this idea that, buried in all his plaid and over-sized army surplus shirts, there is the shape of Dean Winchester, and that shape is all lean muscle. The thought of it makes Castiel ache. He aches so very badly, and all the beer he has drank means he is doing a very poor job of hiding it.

  
At some point, between the rain beating against the windows and Castiel's inability to meet Dean's eyes, he remembers his manners.

"Dean, my apologies. Please come in. I'll get you a towel."

Somewhere in the apartment, Castiel can hear his brother making noises. There is the sound of a smashing glass, followed by a masculine giggle. His brother – Gabriel – is giggling. God help them all.

  
Castiel ushers Dean into the living room. Dean walks in, after closing the door to the apartment and – as an afterthought – removes his rain-soaked boots, so he doesn’t trample muddy water everywhere. He removes his socks too. His feet, Castiel notices, are as pale and freckled as the rest of him. 

  
There’s another crash. The sound of Gabriel yelling, “MY BAD.”

  
In the bathroom, Castiel pulls open the towel cupboard. He notices that Dean hasn’t followed him this far. Instead, the man in question seems to be loitering in the hallway. Castiel calls to him, "You know, I haven't seen Gabe this drunk in years. What was he drinking?"

Out in the hallway, Dean says, "I don't even know, man. He was five sheets to the wind by the time I even got to the Roadhouse, and that was a couple of hours ago. Ellen asked me to make sure he got home okay." Castiel hands him a towel; one of the guest towels, cream-coloured and over-sized. Dean wastes no time in scrubbing it over his damp face. "You should know, I was taking your brother home but I wasn't... you know... _taking your brother home._ If you catch my drift."

"Yes, I catch your drift." Beer might be impairing Castiel's decision-making abilities, but it would be difficult for anyone to miss that euphemism. God forbid anybody might think Dean Winchester was _gay._  

  
Dean doesn’t seem bothered by Castiel’s tone. Instead, he seems to be taking in his surroundings. Everything seems fascinating to him; he examines the contents of Gabriel's bookcase and the modest collection of vinyl LPs that Castiel is forced to admit belong to him. The face Dean pulls when he discovers Castiel owns a Duran Duran album makes him feel like he's failed some kind of test.

But nevertheless, Castiel lets him look. He likes being the object of Dean's scrutiny - perhaps more than he should.

Eventually, Dean's eyes come to rest on a framed photograph on the wall; a picture Castiel took of Gabriel and Anna, his younger sister, the summer before he met Michael. Back then, everything was still sunny and idyllic and new; and they’re sitting on a water fountain in a park he can’t remember the name of. Gabriel looks a lot younger than he does now. And Anna, who was the youngest of the three of them and barely seventeen at the time, still manages to tower over him, a tumble of wild red hair and pale skin. Castiel wonders what Dean thinks of her - if he thinks she's pretty?  

  
"That's my family." Castiel says, and Dean smiles. Standing this close,  he can see the rain tracking down the back of Dean's neck.  "That girl is my sister Anna , and of course you know Gabe. That brother of mine who you brought home but _didn't bring home."_

  
Castiel wasn't intending to say it - he thinks maybe there's an underlying layer of acerbity to his words, which is unfair. It's not like Dean can help his sexual preferences after all. But Dean just smiles.

"No pictures of your parents?"

  
Castiel shrugs. "My Dad doesn't deserve to go on a wall."

  
He didn't intend to say that either. Dean says, "Don't worry man, my Dad ain't exactly "hall of fame" material either. You got a Mom?"

  
"Probably, somewhere." Off Dean's look, he says, "I never met her. What about your Mom?"

"I'm not drunk enough for that conversation."

  
"Oh." he says.

  
"You mind if I stick around for a little while, until the rain stops?"

  
"I don't mind. Do you want to use our shower to warm up? We have beer too. Not that I’m suggesting you should bring the beer into the shower. I mean, you _can_ if you want, but it would be a bit weird.” _Shut up, Cas. Shut up._ “I'm sure I can find some clothes you can borrow." He looks Dean up and down; he can't be more than an inch taller than him, but his shoulders were broader. “I’m sure I’ll have something that will fit.” God, _why was he still talking?_

  
Dean laughs and it’s like watching the clouds break. "That actually sounds kind of awesome, man. Thanks."

  
“No problem.”  

  
It’s with a sense of surrealism that Castiel shows Dean how to work the shower. He points to his shampoo and body wash, and realises that he has a disproportionate amount of male skincare products. He wasn't sure he was ever going to see Dean again, and then here he is, standing close to him, reading the back of a bottle of Clarins.  

  
"There are more towels under the sink. There’s a door that connects to my bedroom too. I'll leave you some clothes out on my bed..." he can’t look at Dean while he’s talking. He pretends to be straightening out the shampoo bottles. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks Cas. I owe you."

"No you don't."

  
And then Castiel is in his bedroom, opening and closing drawers, searching for something that might fit Dean. This is weird. This is so weird. As the sound of the shower starts up, he tries not to think about Dean Winchester on the other side of that wall, undressing. His heart already feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, he doesn’t need any more anxiety fuel. He finds a pair of sweatpants for Dean, but finding him a t-shirt that'd fit proves to be more of a problem. He has an old Todd Rundgren t-shirt that he thinks Dean would appreciate given his love of classic rock, but when he finds it he realises it'd be much too small, so instead he finds him a larger t-shirt; it's a dark, military green. It would match his eyes well.

Then Castiel goes to deal with Gabriel. He manages to wrestle his brother out of his vomity shirt and leaves him in a woozy heap on his bedroom floor whilst he goes to stick it in the laundry basket. He fetches his brother a bottle of water and some aspirin, which he leaves on his bedside table. Getting him into bed is an arduous process.

  
When he walks back into the living room, Dean is already there. He still looks damp, but his skin is flushed from the hot water and the t-shirt that Castiel picked out for him seems to be a touch on the small side – through it, Cas imagines he can see the outline of every muscle; the deltoideus muscle, the pectoralus major. He realises he’s staring, and tries to smiles. 

  
Deansmiles back. It’s the smile of a man who’s used to being stared at. Belatedly, Castiel realises Dean is holding two bottles of beer, one of which he offers to Cas.  

  
"Sorry man, I helped myself. I hope that’s okay. Do you mind if I join you on the couch?”

  
It’s a fairly innocuous question, but one that causes Castiel's stomach to dip. It is not a very big couch.

  
“Sure.”

  
“Cool.” Dean takes a seat, one arm stretching along the back of the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He nods at the television, “I didn’t realise you were a Dr Sexy fan.”  

  
"I'm not, not really." This is said with a coolness Castiel does not feel. He sits down, but no matter how far he pushes his body into the opposite end of the couch, he can still feel the heat of Dean’s arm along the back of his neck. "I've only just started watching it. It's okay so far."

"Awesome. You are in for a treat, Cas. Is Doctor Suarez in it yet? Has Piccolo met her twin?"

"Dean!  _Spoilers."_

"Sorry." he says, in a not-very-sorry sort of voice. On the screen, a buxom young woman is crying into Dr Sexy's white coat.

"I have to admit," Castiel says, "I didn't have you figured as a Dr Sexy fan."

"Guilty pleasure. Me and my buddy Charlie always watch it. We have this -... " Dean takes a pull off his bottle of beer, "... I can't believe I'm telling you this -  we have this weekly 'Dr Sexy' night. We're talking beer, mexican food, implausible storylines, the works. Every Tuesday. It's the best night of the week." And before Castiel has time to reflect on who Charlie is, and who he might be to Dean, he adds, "You should join us, man. We could use a referee sometimes. Like, who do you think is sexier, Cas? Is it Dr Piccolo or Nurse Juanita?"

Dr Piccolo, the doe-eyed ingenue or Nurse Juanita, the sassy latina with a heart of gold. Of course, both of them are improbably attractive, but Dean hasn't seemed to have figured out that this really isn't Castiel's area of expertise. There's not getting around it now.

"I'm really not the right person to be answering that question." Castiel says. He picks at the label on his beer. When he does turn his attention back to Dean, he finds he is being watched again, his wide green eyes shining with amusement.

"You're gay?"

"Is that a problem?"

 

"No, man. Not at all!” Dean taps his beer against Cas' with a hollow clink, “Dayenu! You should have told me sooner.”

Castiel takes a long sip of beer, and feels it cool his throat. He doesn't know what to say to Dean. He can feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment, and the heat radiates down his chest and arms. He wonders if he's blushing. And if he is blushing, are the lights in the apartment bright enough for Dean to actually notice? He finds he doesn't care. He feels himself smiling against the lip of his beer bottle; _actually fucking smiling._  Smiling still feels so alien to him.

Dean is a good friend. It feels good to have a friend like Dean.

They watch as Dr Sexy diagnoses someone with Legionnaires Disease. After a moment, Dean says, "I was always more interested in  Dr Sexy anyway,” and that makes Castiel laugh. Castiel never laughs. For a minute, Dean looks shocked, and then delighted. “Hey! I'm serious! Not that I don't like girls - because, man, I love girls. But the occasional guy is... you know, _okay_. I guess."

 _'Okay, I guess'._ There's a wealth of subtext in there, and if Castiel wanted to pry he supposed he could probably get the whole story out of Dean. Castiel thinks he already has a pretty good read on Dean; he's a mechanic, and he prefers cheap beer. His father isn't "hall of fame" material. If Dean Winchester is bisexual, he's probably not be entirely comfortable with expressing it.

Castiel decides not to push. It seems forbidden somehow. Too sensitive a subject. Instead, Castiel says, "Why Dr Sexy?"

"Why?" Dean glares at him, " _Why Dr Sexy?_ He wears cowboy boots, Cas. You don't find Dr Sexy... _sexy_?"

He seems so invested that Castiel doesn't have the heart to disagree. So instead, he says, "You can't wear cowboy boots in an operating theatre, Dean."

_"Yes you can."_

"You can't."

"Oh right, and you're an expert are you?"

"Well, I _did_ go to medical school for a couple of years, so I am privy to the basics."

Dean turns to look at him. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. There is something undeniably satisfying about making Dean Winchester speechless.

"Why did you drop out?"

The answer, of course, is Michael. But that is a conversation that Castiel isn't quite ready to have.

"I hate to throw your own words back at you, but I'm not drunk enough for that conversation." He finishes his bottle and wiggles it at Dean, who takes it off him and places it on the coffee table.

"Fair enough. Did you have to wear one of those white coats?"

"Sometimes. No cowboy boots though."

"Oh well. That's still _kind of_ sexy, I guess." He says it in an almost derogatory way, and turns his attention back to the television. Is this... were they flirting? Castiel was never very good at gauging whether somebody was trying to flirt with him.

He feels something akin to panic rising in his stomach. It was one thing to have a crush on a guy who is decidedly straight, but what about a guy who might be, kind of, _maybe_ bisexual? Albeit, a man who was so closeted, he was beyond Narnia. Dean was in Westoros at this point; he was probably the guy that poisoned Joffrey, that's how closeted Dean was. Castiel found himself trying to suppress a laugh, and when Dean looked at him out of the corner of his eye, it did nothing to stave his mirth. He tried to hold down his laughter, which only bubbled up again in an unflattering snort. Maybe he had too much to drink.

He shook his head to himself, his laughter dying down. There is nothing more terrifying or more misleading in this world than hope. He so, _so_ does not need this right now. This was supposed to be his fresh start.

Eventually, Dean says, "Hey, you want to come to my brother's bachelor party next week?"

Castiel cannot conceive of a more terrifying idea, and it must show in his face because Dean laughs.

Castiel says, "I, uh, I don't do well at parties. I'm not a "people" person."

"You do okay with me. Besides, it's not that big of a party. Just my brother Sam, and like ten of his most pretentious friends from Sandford."

"Your brother went to Sandford?"

"Don’t change the subject. My brother's real smart, you know? Problem is, so are all his friends. They don't think much of Sammy's grease monkey brother. I mean, they'll be nicer people there too. Charlie'll be there and Benny, they're both awesome. You'll like them."

"That sounds awesome." He says, even though it sounds miserable.  "Although I'm not big on strippers. Uh, you know. _Female_ strippers."

"Cas, relax. We won't force you to get any lapdances, we're not that kind of guys. Mostly, I just need a buddy there to back me up. I'm giving you a 'no-lapdance' guarantee. Think about it."

"I will."

“I'll give you my number,” Dean says, “then you can text me and let me know either way. The party's on Saturday. We'd love it if you could be there.”

  
Seeing as Dean would be the only guy he knows at this bachelor party, he wonders who this 'we' is supposed to entail. Never the less, he watches as Dean gets off the couch and goes to pull his phone out of the pocket of his rain-soaked jacket. Castiel's own phone is locked away in a drawer in his bedroom, switched off.

Castiel hates cell phones, but there's a good reason for that

While Castiel is fumbling with his phone - ( _“You have a Nokia, Cas? Come on, you're killing me here. What is this, 2003?”_ ) - Dean fetches them both another couple of beers, and then joins him again on the couch. He has moved closer to him this time - a lot closer. He smells spicy, like cloves and cardamom, and maybe something else - something _sweeter_. His thigh presses against Castiel's - actually _presses_  against it- and Castiel is instantly and embarrassingly hard. It's the sort of hard-on that would be difficult not to notice given the thin material of his sweatpants, but Dean doesn't mention it; Dean doesn't talk at all, merely leans in closer so that his breath is ghosting down the back of Castiel's t-shirt and making the situation about a thousand times worse. 

There was no way Dean doesn't know what he was doing to him. He had to know, he simply _had to._  But then... he had invited him to a _bachelor party_. It doesn't get much straighter than that. 

Dean reads out his phone number, which Castiel types into his phone with exaggerated slowness. He can feel his fingers shake, and he's determined not to show it.

“Right,” Dean says, “now all you got to do is ring that number, and your number will show up on my phone." 

He says it quietly, although there's no one else in the room to hear them. Castiel looks at him. He toys with the idea of just outright asking him if he was flirting; he has little patience for games after all, even seductive ones, and he doesn't like the way Dean seems to have control over him. Does Dean want him? What would he say if he did? Okay, yes, to say Castiel found him attractive would be an understatement, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to pin Dean down and fuck him into the couch cushions. But there was this other part of him that balked at the idea; that reminded Castiel that he had fought hard to get his life back, and the idea of having to share it with someone... sharing it with someone he didn't really _know_... 

Not that he was suggesting that Dean could be another Michael.

Dean is looking at him now, his green eyes furrowed. Castiel realises he's been quiet for a while. He has to pull back to look at Dean properly; he hadn't realised their faces were so close. 

"Cas?" Dean says. Castiel doesn't know what he's trying to ask and he doesn't know how to answer him. Before he has a chance to say anything more, the opening guitar riff of White Zombie's “Thunder Kiss '65” starts to play. Castiel looks down to see the words "LISA CALLING" flashing on Dean's phone. And then Dean stands up, his thigh no longer pressing against Castiel's. He looks flustered.

“I, uh.. I think I gotta take this, Cas.”

“Okay.” Castiel says. 

“I mean...”

“No, it's fine.”

Dean is out of his seat and across the room in record time. When he answers the phone, he talks quietly; and although it's pretty obvious he doesn't want Castiel to overhear him, it is not a big apartment, so Castiel has to make an effort not to eavesdrop on Dean's conversation. He tries humming to himself, loud enough so that he can't listen to what Dean is saying, but quiet enough that Dean doesn't think he's crazy. It occurs to Castiel that maybe he is being too nice. Something almost happened there, didn't it? He and Dean had been walking a line. 

Whatever the case, the humming is proving ineffective.

 _“No, I was just making sure Gabriel got home okay. He was pretty wasted.”_ Dean is whispering. There's a beat. Dean stares into space, his ear is pressed to the phone, and one finger absently scratching behind one ear – a spot which Castiel knows he is going to be fantasising about later. _“I'm just waiting for the rain to die off before I set out. I'll be there to pick you up. Hey, have I ever let you down before?”_ And however Lisa responds to this results in a snort from Dean. Castiel guesses her answer was 'yes'.

There's another pause, as Dean listens to what she is saying. His eyes flick momentarily to Castiel's and then away again.

 _“No one.”_ he says. And for some reason, that hits Castiel like a punch to the gut. He doesn't hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he focuses on Dr Sexy. Dr Sexy is performing heart surgery and his hands are wrist-deep in an open chest cavity.  _Rip it out,_ he thinks, _just rip it out and toss it in the garbage. God knows, I wish I could._

And Dean says, _“Sure. I... uh, you too.”_

Dean makes his excuses to leave, after that. He says he promised he'd pick up Lisa after her shift at the Roadhouse, and even though the rain hasn't even begun to slow down, he really should be going. He should be going, he says, as he stands rooted to the spot. Twenty minutes later, he's sitting on the couch again with another beer. He should be going, he says. Dean Winchester is like an old record that keeps skipping.

They don't lapse back into their easy way of talking, nor does Dean make any move to sit closer to Castiel. The air seems colder somehow, and their conversation hits a lull as Castiel begins to internally chide himself for his irrational behaviour - because _so what_ if Dean was seeing Lisa?  He did not need another Michael in his life. And besides, he wasn't even sure if Dean was flirting with him in the first place, so it's fine. If he _was_ flirting with him, he wouldn't have invited him to a fucking bachelor party full of naked fucking women, because who does that? 

Still, despite the awkwardness, Dean seems reluctant to leave. He doesn't ask Castiel about his phone number again, and Castiel doesn't offer it.

  
When he does finally leave, it's a relief. 

 

 


End file.
